


honey, call it a boon

by epphfervescent



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Burping, Dirty Talk, Edging, Fingering, Gender Affirmng Language, Lactose Intolerance, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Married Sex, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, POV Fingon, POV Second Person, Pet Names, Stuffing, The Vibe is feederism as bdsm play scenario so, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Fingering, fingon's a soft touch tho don't think he could be less than half a service top if he tried, like a golden retriever. can hold an egg in his mouth politely, not all tags apply to all chapters! see beginning note for deets, re: bellies. it's bellytalk. it's only dirty if you too are a rat bastard.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-25 20:01:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20729954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epphfervescent/pseuds/epphfervescent
Summary: Fingon's stuffed Maedhros to his absolute limit, and sets out to reach another.





	honey, call it a boon

**Author's Note:**

> *matt post voice* I haven't been horny in months. hashtag-Oops.
> 
> -chapter 1: only stuffing and belly shit  
-chapter 2; as per spec: stuffing and belly shit, plus The Sex What Was Tagged Fer  
-chapter 3; as per spec: Wouldn't You Like To Know Weather Boy, For That Matter So Would Fucking I
> 
> -Calaquende = an elf from aman, singular.  
-the Lambengolmor = elven loremasters. so when you get to that bit NO fin and mae did NOT skip important elfpromulgation to do freakydeaky, they were just two of several elfdelegates who represent the elfsenate at elfcollege, and they only bailed ONE time during a week-long thing. I try not to do this horseshit in porn but there you go.

With a light touch, you trace Maedhros’ lower lip, the small ‘o’ of his open, panting mouth.

You have plans for him, this day. Plans you both excused yourselves from a diet of the Lambengolmor to see through—to have a whole day for stuffing Maedhros’ belly to his absolute limit.

You’re both the efficient sort, so at only midmorning you ask him, cajolingly, “Is burping the only thing I’m going to hear out of that handsome mouth all day?" with your palms to Maedhros’ stiffly bulging belly, which gurgles, almost in answer. 

With just a cursory tap above the navel you can feel he’s tight as a drum—only midmorning, so far, and you’ve gotten Maedhros quite sick.

He’s stuffed oh so full, his stomach so _stretched_ he nearly cried before even finishing the large meal that put him in this condition, overwrought and swollen. His belly is so tightly packed there’s barely room left in his body for him to breathe. So distended it wells out at his sides, his belly’s eclipsing his hips, pushed so far forward you can see to the back of his normally deep navel—you fed him so much and got his belly so big, you managed to shallow his bellybutton. 

But, Maedhros has let you bloat him up like this before. And you know him, well, and know he’s still within his limits—just not comfortably. So what you mean, when you say you got him sick, is that you weren’t gentle with what you tasked his belly to digest. The humungous quantity of food you had Maedhros gulp through a funnel was mostly thick, rich porridge, as creamy as you could make it, to land in his stomach as like to a stone as possible. And to wash it down, a great load of watered wine.

Nothing that could get a Calaquendë like you or Maedhros intoxicated—but any kind of fermentation is enough to turn your husband’s stomach sour. The same for anything one could buy from a dairy. He’s always left full of cramps, twice as bloated as he’d be on something else. Any room left in him is squeezed full of bilious gasses forced up in great, wet burps—and Maedhros is mortified to do anything so undignified as burp.

The plan for today, though, is to push your partner’s limits. His dignities. He left you with full discretion to figure how. You pumped him full of litres of milk exactly for that extra bloat, the extra burbly, upset belly from being filled up with things that _don’t_ agree with him.

And after coaxing Maedhros to finish a meal, or forcing, or both—once he’s full like this—big, and round like this—

When normally-lithe Maedhros is contorted convex and impossible—when your sensible, unflappable, nonpareil partner is pushed to every brink and unravels, his middle so dense and swollen he can barely stand without you to hold him up, this incomparable orator unable to even _speak_ except to whine, composure lost as he fumbles for your hands and presses them to his own bulging waist and moans, begs, says, “Fingon—Finno, ah, it hurts—I’m so _full_, it’s too _much, _please, _please_—” When—

Well. You—don’t mind that part. And at only midmorning, you’re there—at the juncture where you’re able to press your palm to Maedhros’ rounded belly and feel it gurgle, press further and force his stomach to give up a burp as well as a groan.

Indeed, you don’t have to do even that much for Maedhros to suffer any extra. Slumped with his back to the kitchen wall, holding his belly, Maedhros is having trouble _not _belching, even long enough to take a breath. You’ve cosseted and massaged his belly to help settle the huge glut of porridge inside him, ever since you set aside the funnel. That was already a while ago. And all that time and still, Maedhros hasn't been able to do much except get up burp after burp, his gassy belly only getting tighter and sicker.

And though he’s wonderful when he’s undone like this, all those carefully constructed moans you love so much are missing.

"I know cream is hard for you to get down,” you continue. Still cradling Maedhros’ distended waist, you apply the smallest amount of pressure on his belly—even that brings a choked, involuntary whimper out of his throat, and just as quickly the whimper morphs into a hollow belch. “You must be so gassy—poor baby, I can hear those big gurgles from here. I can't imagine how dense breakfast must be, sitting in your stomach--how tight your belly must feel.” You move your hands up on Maedhros’ waist to where he clutches it himself, covering his hands with your own, broader ones. “But I miss your pretty voice, baby, come on—nothing?”

Looking down at Maedhros at a tilt, you watch him wince, open his mouth to say something, and let a burp come out instead. “Oh. I—” A burp. “I’m—" A burp. “_Ugh,_ I—I’m—I’m _sorry_—” And another burp, wet and loud and _worse_ for trying to swallow it back for so long. You can _feel_ the rattling of it, against your hands. A desperate little crease of mortification forms between his eyebrows; as loathe as he is to face you when he belches like this, he looks up with a pitiful sort of frustration. “I—can’t, I—_uuooorpf!_—I, ohh, Fingo_OOURP!—_”

“Shh.” You press two fingers to Maedhros’ lips; softly, gently, but _there_, holding it shut. His next burp is forced to trap itself in puffed-out cheeks. “Shh, baby, you’re fine. It’s okay—you’re okay.”

With a heavy wince in his brows, Maedhros pushes his mouth into your fingers, and his head thunks into your chest. You rub circles around his lower back, shushing him still when he tenses as a forceful, audible gurgle judders in his belly. A series of sickly belches muffle into your chest.

You tilt his head left to kiss his neck below his ear; then up, and kiss his mouth, even though in practice your lips hit his cheek and your own fingertips. Poor thing, he’s looking more nauseated by the minute.

“You’re alright. I’ll fix it,” you assure him, sweetly.

**Author's Note:**

> the process of writing this was like beating dust out of an area rug with a racquetball racquet. I assume reading it was like I took the dust in hand and blew it in your face, like fucked up fairy dust. if that's your thing I'm @epphfervescent on tumblr also.


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